Twisting Asphalt - A SoCal Ducati Motorcycle Blog

Twenty kilometers away from Sant’Agata Bolognese the road started to pulse with the kind of energy that usually is reserved for a racetrack. It wasn’t loud and it wasn’t omnipresent, but it was there. Just a hint. A whiff really. Something that told you that what was waiting on the other end of this rolling journey was an atypical automotive environment.

And that’s when the first Lamborghini flashed by – at somewhere north of 180 k/h, making passes through the countryside traffic that would make most mortals shutter.

Sant’Agata Bolognese is located on the outskirts of “La Terra dei Motori”, which loosely translates to “The Motor Valley” and yet in some respects it might very well be its core. That’s because after all the multinational corporate takeovers that have taken place, Lamborghini is still very much what you think Lamborghini should be.

Its wild, its fast, its extreme, and its got a very blatantly exotic sensibility to go along with your espresso.

But you already knew that, didn’t you?

And Why? Because in an increasingly niche world, Lamborghini has spent just over forty years propagating the notion that it’s ok to walk on the wildside. They have sold and continue to sell the antithesis of the Ferrari experience. Brightly painted, rough looking, rougher running, super wide and amazingly low supercars that offer something to their consumers that other companies can’t – or won’t – the wickedly evil bad boy ethos. If Ferrari embodies sex on four wheels, Lamborghini is a three-some with two blondes half your age and a bag of cocaine. They make no bones about what it is they do or why they do it, they just continue to mold and craft the kind of ego boost that give Silicon Valley wunderkinds wet-dreams.

Walking up the front door of the factory, I had my doubts. You see, I’ve never really been a Lambo fan. As a kid the car I lusted after was the Ferrari Testarossa and then later the F40. Lamborghinis were just not my style – or so I thought.

But the second I walked through the door something changed. A latent internal processor kicked to life and the idea of roadworthy wickedness felt more than natural. It felt alive. My mind stopped thinking and instead just felt – felt the vibes of a place that’s one-hundred and eighty degrees away from just about any of the other car companies we’ve visited.

While Audi does in fact own Lambo, you’d never know it. This is not a German occupation. Every detail, every function, every station in the factory, every engine part you see feels authentic in a way that the bean counters simply can’t mark on a spreadsheet. This genuine reincarnation of an Italian bad boy grabs you by the throat and commands your attention by striping away every automotive experience that you’ve ever had. Somehow in the process giving you the freedom or perhaps the justification to turn it around and let it loose. To enjoy it. To become one with your inner demonic child. Because ultimately that’s what this place is all about. So while the bright shades of odd colors might freak some folks, the car itself is rumbling attack vehicle that eats up the road and perhaps your perception of yourself.

And then they put me in the car and handed me the keys…

Just to set this up a bit, let’s start by saying that driving a Lamborghini through Northern Italy wasn’t something that I ever imagined doing – Now a Ducati, that’s a different story, but we’ll get to that one a little bit later … In retrospect perhaps it’s a good thing that this wasn’t an aspiration. Because when you fire up the Gallardo for the first time and feel its rumble surrounding you there’s a moment when the real and the imagined cross paths inside your mind and you wonder just what these nice folks at the factory have done. You seriously consider if they’re insane because between the paddle shifters, the F1 inspired wheel, the total lack of visibility and the roar of the still motionless engine, the line that separates life and death seems very, very thin.

A couple of videogame like clicks later thin gets thinner as you fire down the Motor Valley floor. Each click raising your pulse higher and higher. The rumble shaking your soul. Wind blasting over the Spyder top. As you fly by farms and through small towns the sensation of speed redoubles its effort to impress you. The car just moves. As the revs rise, you click the paddle again to upshift and the car lurches backwards while moving forward. The seat jumps. The Gallardo hits you in the nuts and then starts rapidly accelerating again. So fast and so firm that you can’t help but think to yourself, ‘damn it I need a faster motorcycle’.

But it’s when the vivid parts of life stand still and the mundane totally vanishes that you realize that being bad is awfully, awfully good. The wicked works you over so quickly and so ferociously that the only thing left to do is beg yourself to find a way to be bad more often.

Returning to the factory, I found myself very aware of how much the interplay between ego and personality can influence your image of a tangible object. Up until this trip I would have told you hands down that a Ferrari was the pinnacle of auto exotica lust – Today I’m no longer sure that’s true. A matter of fact, I know it’s not true. Being a refined speed demon is fun – but being a sinful speedfreak is one thousand times better.

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